What if
by Syblime
Summary: ...Branson shoots Hitler? Not as crazy as it may sound!


What if...

Branson lurched forwards, gun in hand, boots sinking with every step, with one aim: to get to the other side alive. Around him men were falling, crying out, dying. The German trench that they were heading towards had few men in it; they had sussed that from the 'trial run' yesterday, but the rifle fire kept coming. The closer they got, the more impossible their task seemed. Branson reached the layer of barbed-wire and quickly clambered through the gap which had been cut yesterday. A few other Brits were already ahead of him. Branson jumped down into the enemy trench. Most of the German soldiers were now surrendering, their arms waving in panic above their heads. That might be due to the fact that an English officer had just shot one of their pals, or from a lack of understanding. Branson could almost sympathise with them on the score of cultural differences, but to think in the trenches was fatal. The German soldiers were rounded up and placed against the wall of the trench, their weapons taken from them and English guns pointing in their faces. The light was beginning to fade, but the officer in charge was determined to keep the soldiers here and march them back to the English trench after dark. Branson stood watching them. They were growing irritable. Someone should offer them a cigarette each, he thought.

Suddenly a gun clicked behind him. He spun round and pointed his own gun at the intruder. He was a short man, with a moustache, wearing normal German army uniform. A few seconds past, as if both men were weighing up their options. Then the German man made a run for it. He disappeared down a connecting passage, which probably led to the support trench. Branson followed him. The skinny passage, with its numerous direction changes was hard to navigate, and there was barely any light left at all now. His breathing was ragged from running and he was sweating. He rounded another corner of the passage and heard the shot. For a second he believed himself to be dead. If the other man had been waiting for him it was unlikely that he would miss. The trained soldier in Branson responded, out-manoeuvring his mind. His finger pulled the trigger of his gun, the bullet flying through the semi-darkness, killing the man he had been following.

His brain still waited for the pain, the shock, his own demise, but nothing came. His breath was visible on the night air, and he was breathing heavily. The adrenalin that men experienced in the trenches was unexplainable. To anyone who had not been to the front, the idea of killing men, pursuing an enemy, using guns was horrific. Nobody could think about what they were doing, all movement was mechanical. But even with the horrors, there was a thrill to be had in the chase.

Branson moved over to where the soldier now lay, dead. He searched his pockets for any information which might be useful to the British. He found a sheaf of papers, a small tin, a lighter and a few other oddments. He then took the man's dog tag and left, winding his way back along the narrow passage. The last of the men were scrambling over the top of the trench and making their way back across no-man's land. Branson slipped in amongst them, noting the cold smell of blood that lingered in the air after any action.

Back in their own world the English soldiers dispersed, all looking for a quiet place to have a fag, read a letter or even sleep. Branson found a small inlet that still had a light burning to look at his spoils. The tin was in fact a box of watercolour paints and half of the paper scraps had landscapes on. They weren't very good. Branson was no judge of art but these really were terrible. The other papers had German print on them, so he might have found something of importance. Then he looked at the tag. Gefreiter A. Hitler.

Branson handed over the possessions to his superior officer and wandered back to the inlet. He thought about the man he had killed. Had he been an aspiring politician with his own ill fated romance waiting back home? Had he been set on changing the world? Did he even want to be there, in this God forsaken war, fighting for a foreign country? Branson shook his head, his own feelings were obstructing the peace of mind, which he needed to retain. Nobody gained anything from over thinking the deaths of others. You just had to be thankful that you had another day.


End file.
